


The Second Movement

by persephermione



Series: Broken Reeds [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Music AU, Pining, Rugby Captain John, Teenlock, Unilock, Violinist Sherlock, clarinetist John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:46:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6004780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephermione/pseuds/persephermione
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s study group would be more worthwhile if he could concentrate on it. He finds himself asking Molly to explain the electron transport chain for a third time as he tries to pull himself away from thoughts of light shifting over inky curls as their owner enthusiastically describes his method of composing whole pieces in his head and not forgetting a single note.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Coffeeshop

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I liked my Broken Reeds universe and decided to continue it (as you can see). 
> 
> I don’t know how school systems work in England, but in America double majoring means that you’d get a degree in two different subjects when you graduate college. Also, Sherlock says that John plays size three and a half reeds, and even though I’ve been playing for 9 years I don’t entirely understand how it works, but it’s basically the strength of the reed: beginners start at one or one and a half and the better you get higher the reed strength you buy because it sounds better. I think the scale goes up to four.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, what do you study?” John asks as he and Sherlock sit down at a small table in a corner of the coffee shop.

“So, what do you study?” John asks as he and Sherlock sit down at a small table in a corner of the coffee shop. 

“Chemistry,” Sherlock replies, almost scalding his tongue on his coffee, “I actually double major with that and violin performance.”

John grins across the table. “I’m not surprised, you’re a brilliant player. I was wondering why you’ve stayed with us and put up with Anderson’s playing for so long. I suppose you have a group requirement?”

“Yes, but I enjoy the group enough,” Sherlock says, “and Mrs. Hudson is a friend. Did you know she actually used to teach as a full time music professor? But with her hip it’s easier for her to just do the small ensembles.” Sherlock bites his lip, decidedly not mentioning that the main reason for him sticking with the ensemble was sipping his drink across the table.

“You, on the other hand,” Sherlock clears his throat, “you joined because you enjoy playing, even though you’re not doing any coursework that requires it. You’ve been playing for years, the old callous on your thumb where your thumb-pad rests and the fact that you play on size 3 and a half reeds testifies to that. Although you’re a perfectly adequate player, you have the technical skill level of someone who did not study privately, though you must have worked hard on your own to get to where you are. The amount of practice you must have done by yourself indicates that you enjoy playing, but beyond that you are typically in a good mood during practice and you’re both the captain of the rugby team and a medical student; you wouldn’t be spending your very limited free time doing this unless you really enjoyed it.”

“Medical student? How did you know that?” John asks after a beat, eyes wide in surprise.

“Not a deduction I’m afraid,” Sherlock smiles crookedly across the table, “I’ve seen some of your textbooks poking out of your bag during practice after you’ve presumably come from studying at the library.”

“Even so, that was amazing,” John says after another moment of staring at him.

Sherlock blinks in surprise. “Do you think so?” he asks, hopeful.

“Yeah. Extraordinary,” John smiles as he reaches for another sip of coffee.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John chuckles, shifting in his chair. His foot bumps into Sherlock’s but he doesn’t move it.

“Captain of the rugby team though? I can't really picture you willfully watching a game, I’m surprised that you knew that.”

Sherlock blushes, clearing his throat as he fiddles with his cup. “Irene, one of the violinists, takes me to the games sometimes. She says I have to get out more, though I really don’t see the point.” Sherlock takes a drink of his coffee, hoping John doesn’t notice the slight flush across his cheeks. It was true, Irene had dragged him to the first rugby match he had ever been to. At which point he had seen Captain John Watson covered in mud and sweat and wearing shorts accenting his sun-kissed skin. After that, he’d been to every game, only pretending to grudgingly go along with Irene, who has started to seem suspicious that he’s accompanied her to so many games. He must remember to seem more annoyed next time.

“Oh,” John’s foot moves away from its spot next to Sherlock’s, “I didn’t realize you and she were together.”

“We’re not,” Sherlock says, “boys aren’t really her area.”

John’s eyebrows jump up. “Oh, okay. So I guess your girlfriend doesn’t get jealous that you go with Irene to the matches then?”

“Well no,” Sherlock looks up at John through his eyelashes, “not really my area either.”

“Right,” John says, a small smile playing over his face, “which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock replies.

The two of them sip their respective coffees for a moment. 

“How long’ve you been doing violin?” John asks, suddenly changing the subject.

“Since I was 6,” Sherlock responds. “My mother needed a way to keep me occupied in the house rather than running around in the woods behind it, and that was her solution. I don’t believe she expected me to like it so much or to keep at it for so long. My brother, Mycroft,” Sherlock’s brow wrinkles in disdain, “used to take piano lessons, but once I surpassed his skill he stopped.”

“Ha, I know the feeling,” John smiles, “I used to hate it when Harry, my sister, did anything better than me.”

The two talk for a while longer, watching steam curl in the air as their knees occasionally bump. Of course, if Sherlocks’s getting a bit mesmerized looking at John’s eyes and trying to decide what exact shade of blue they are, then really he’s just trying to hold eye contact like any polite person would. Obviously.

John looks down briefly at his watch as Sherlock drinks the last dregs of his now cool coffee and Sherlock sees surprise make his eyes widen while something like sadness comes over his features.

“Shit,” John starts collecting his things, “I have to go. I have a biochem test in a week and I have to make it to study group.”

Sherlock stands up, glancing at his watch. He’s a bit surprised at the time, they had sat there for almost an hour talking to each other. He hadn’t felt bored once, instead fascinated by talking with John about all manner of subjects and enjoying the closeness. His face falls a bit, sad that it’s over so soon.

“Of course," he says, picking up his violin case and hoisting his bag onto his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I have to leave,” John says as he stands up. Sherlock gets up as well; there was no point in staying if John wasn't there for him to talk to. He walks behind John to the door of the building and when John pauses on the sidewalk he looks at him expectantly.

John’s left hand twitches a bit, as if it wants to reach out, but he stills the movement. He looks at Sherlock for a moment, seemingly unsure what to say now that they're standing on the cold pavement.

“You'll be late for your group if we stand here any longer, John,” Sherlock says at last, with a small, crooked smile.

John grins up at him. “Goodbye, Sherlock,” is all he says, still smiling as he turns towards the library.

Sherlock turns the other way to go back to his flat, blushing slightly as he commits the night to his mind palace.

. . . . .

John’s study group would be more worthwhile if he could concentrate on it. He finds himself asking Molly to explain the electron transport chain for a third time as he tries to pull himself away from thoughts of light shifting over inky curls as their owner enthusiastically describes his method of composing whole pieces in his head and not forgetting a single note.


	2. Litmus Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks back to the day before, remembering John’s easy laugh, his interest in Sherlock’s music.

Sherlock wakes up the next morning smiling into his pillow, a golden voice and a bright smile having danced through his dreams.

He stretches under his covers, opening his eyes to see sunlight filtering in through the window, catching on dust floating in the air. It’s rare that he sleeps for so long, he’s a bit surprised he didn’t wake up before now. He watches the light move around his room for a little while, content in lying there under the warmth of his duvet. 

He thinks back to the day before, remembering John’s easy laugh, his interest in Sherlock’s music. He was fascinating to talk to; Sherlock had found that he couldn’t deduce everything about John and he kept wanting to know more. He wants to know about when John sprained his shoulder from rugby, what color his eyes are when he’s just woken up, what his skin tastes like, even boring things like what he puts on his toast or what his favorite book is. He looks so simple on the outside, hiding his complexities under unassuming clothes and a rugby jacket, but after their relatively short conversation yesterday Sherlock finds he wants to know everything that he can possibly discover about John Watson.

God, he won’t even see John today, they don’t have practice on Thursdays. It’s only been a few hours since he last saw him and he already misses him. Sherlock pulls on his blue robe, wondering if John feels the same way about him. Probably not, he was likely just being friendly yesterday. But, Sherlock points out to himself, he would gladly have solely friendship with John, if that’s all that John wants.

But he needs something to keep his mind off of John for the day. Maybe he could work on the piece? Yes. Good plan.

He gets out his violin and closes his eyes, facing the window to the street as he begins to play, mentally adding a grace note to the pickup of the 24th measure. There, flows much better now.

. . . . .

Sherlock puts his violin away with a sigh, unsure of how long he’d been playing, but with fingers starting to cramp from working for so long. He steps over the coffee table, upsetting a stack of papers on his way and glances at the clock. If he leaves now, he could get to his physics lab on time, but that class is absolutely useless. However, he could instead go to a laboratory and work on an acidity experiment. He would just do it in the flat, but the last time he got acid on her carpet Mrs. Hudson hadn’t spoken to him very kindly for a few days, making food harder to come by and practices slightly uncomfortable. He would much rather have a walk to the lab to work and have free access to her chocolate biscuits, he thinks, making a mental note to duck into her flat and steal some before he leaves.

. . . . .

John, after doodling his way through his morning anatomy class, is completely unfocused for rugby practice. 

He narrowly avoids a ball thrown at his head, glaring at Greg as his teammate laughs. He rolls his eyes and throws it back, aiming for Greg’s head in turn, violin music floating through his mind.

He wonders, watching the team practice a new drill, if Sherlock likes him. He hopes that he’ll get to see more of the violinist, Sherlock doesn’t seem to have many friends. Of course, he would very happily be more than friends with Sherlock Holmes, but there’s no way to know how Sherlock feels about him. He seemed to enjoy talking with John over coffee yesterday, but it may be that he just enjoys John’s company. 

That’s more likely, John thinks to himself as he pats Mike on the back, after all, who knows if Sherlock even likes other people romantically at all. 

But, he could have sworn that he saw a glimmer of attraction in Sherlock’s eyes when they were talking yesterday. 

But again, that could just be his imagination talking.

John calls practice to a halt earlier than was scheduled after he faceplants in the mud, too busy recalling the pink hue that Sherlock’s alabaster skin took on in the warmth of the small coffee shop to pay attention to his surroundings.

. . . . .

“Ready to go, Molly?” a familiar voice asks.

Sherlock jerks his head up from where he had been scribbling notes, taken by surprise by the sudden interruption of relative silence that had been occupying the lab. He had heard some other students enter the lab an hour or so ago and had responded when Molly greeted him, but since then there’s mostly been silence.

He’s just in time to see Molly kiss . . . what’s his name? Gavin? He’s just in time to see her kiss Gavin on the cheek before she responds to him.

“Let me pack up my notes, then I’ll be ready to go.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise. He’s happy for her, obviously. He was glad when her crush on him had finally dissipated, thankful that he could finally have conversations with the admittedly clever pathology student that weren’t awkward, but he hadn’t noticed that she had started dating Lestrade. They must have met during one of their music practices.

“How’s it going, Sherlock?” Lestrade asks, again startling Sherlock as he was turning back to his work, not expecting to be addressed by the cello player.

“Well,” he responds, unsure if he should elaborate or not.

Graham opens his mouth to speak again, it seems as if that reply was satisfactory.

“I’m glad to hear you’ve been getting on with John,” he says.

Sherlock can feel his ears turn pink. “I don’t-”

“Relax, I didn’t mean that as a bad thing”, Lestrade cuts in, seeing Sherlock’s embarrassment. “Really, I’m happy for the two of you.”

He takes Molly’s hand once she’s hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, starting to walk across the lab to the door. “But you might be interested to know that a certain rugby captain was very distracted at practice today over a certain violinist,” Lestrade winks at Sherlock over his shoulder as he exits with Molly.

Sherlock doesn’t respond when Molly calls goodbye to him, paralyzed with this new knowledge. Could it be possible . . . ? 

Sherlock blinks into the air for approximately 47 seconds before recalling himself and returning to his microscope. He spends about another 5 minutes fidgeting with his litmus paper and bacterial enzyme slides before giving it up and packing his bag to leave. As he stands up, his stomach growls. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, the biscuits he borrowed from Mrs. Hudson long gone. Perhaps he’ll go to the coffee shop near his flat, the one John took him to yesterday, and get a sandwich. Obviously, he tells himself, this has nothing to do with the slim possibility of seeing John there again.

He spends the remainder of his day restlessly, alternating between starting a new experiment in the kitchen, working through a Vivaldi concerto, flipping through various textbooks, and cataloging everything that he knows about John. Maybe he should write a second movement, he thinks, finally flopping into bed, he knows so much more about him now that the one movement seems inadequate.


	3. A Battered Mystery Novel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John leaves the library earlier than he normally would to head over to the music building. He needs time to practice his part, or so he tells himself. He has absolutely no ulterior motives for heading over early like he did two days ago when he saw Sherlock. None at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh I love the book John's reading (it's by Agatha Christie) but I figured that Sherlock would call it out as being inaccurate.

John leaves the library earlier than he normally would to head over to the music building. He needs time to practice his part, or so he tells himself. He has absolutely no ulterior motives for heading over early like he did two days ago when he saw Sherlock. None at all. 

Of course, if Sherlock’s there it would be nice to see him again, but John’s simply leaving the library earlier than he really should (considering his upcoming test) so he can get some practice time in. It’s as simple as that. 

He enters the hallway that their practice room is located, straining his ears for any hint of violin music, but doesn’t hear any. His shoulders slump, abandoning all pretense of wanting to practice. He shouldn’t be disappointed, really. He hadn’t seen Sherlock any of the other times that he had arrived early, there was no reason to expect to see Sherlock this early again. But he had hoped to talk to the violinist more. He didn’t even particularly care what they talked about, but after only one day he already misses him and he can’t wait to see him again.

He enters the room and sets his bag down, thinking over what to do. Right now, there’s thirty minutes to fill up before practice begins. Walking back to the library would be a waste of time as he’d have to leave again the second he got settled in. He could practice, but instead he can just finger through his notes during rehearsal when he’s not playing. He definitely has a battered mystery novel somewhere in the bottom of his bag that he’s halfway through, he supposes he can dig that out even though it’s not the most productive of activities.

. . . . .

Sherlock walks quickly through the hallway a few minutes later, hoping that John will come early again. He had begun composing the second movement of his piece in his head and hadn’t realized what time it was, instead trying to work out how to transform the different smiles of John Watson into music. 

There is a strong possibility that John hasn’t come early again but just maybe . . .

Sherlock turns into the room, slowing his pace. His eyes fall on John with a paperback in his hands, looking up at Sherlock in surprise.

Sherlock smiles at him, alight with happiness at seeing him.

But, he slows a few steps into the room. Does John expect him to sit next to him or just in his normal seat? What if John just wants to read his book? What if John doesn’t want to talk to him?

After hesitating for a moment, he walks to his normal seat across the room and slides his bag underneath it, unsure of what he should do.

John watches him sit down, smiles at the uncertain expression on Sherlock’s face, and stands up. He closes his book and drops it on the chair, starting to walk across the room to Sherlock. Sherlock notices the cover of the novel, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. 

“Don’t tell me you actually read garbage like that,” Sherlock scoffs as John sits down in the chair next to him.

“What? It’s a good book,” John argues back good-naturedly. His hand is resting mere inches from Sherlock’s. If he moved his pinky slightly to the left, they would be almost touching…

“It’s completely unrealistic,” Sherlock retorts as he forcibly yanks his eyes away from John’s hand, back to his face, taking in his bright eyes and hair that is still slightly ruffled from the wind.

“And how would you know that? If you’re calling it garbage, you can’t possibly have read it,” John retorts.

“No, but it was written by someone who didn’t have experience solving murders. It’s highly likely that there is far too much romanticization and far too little real deductions or logic used to solve the crime.”

“And how would you know how to solve a crime?”

Sherlock closes his mouth with a snap, realizing that the other day he hadn’t told John about the few times he’s assisted the police. He hasn’t actually gotten to help them much, but he’s good at it. Unfortunately, he’s so young that the officers are wary of taking him seriously, but Gregson is a friend of Mummy’s and had shown him the details of a case about a dead boy, Carl Powers, under duress. Sherlock had surprised Gregson with how quickly he had solved it, let alone that he had solved it at all. Since then, Gregson’s let Sherlock look at the evidence of some of the harder murders, but honestly had the forensics team not destroyed half of the evidence on the last one, the D.I. would have been fine on his own.

But now he’s been silent a bit too long and John is starting to look at him strangely.

“I . . . sometimes I work as a consulting detective for Scotland Yard,” he says haltingly, afraid of what John’s reaction will be.

“Consulting detective?” John asks. Sherlock eyebrows jump up in surprise at the genuine interest in John’s voice rather than the derision he expected. 

“I didn’t know that existed,” John says, slight confusion in his expression.

“I invented the job,” Sherlock says, again expecting to be laughed at. He knows that he’s eccentric, he’s been called worse than that, but John looks at him with a spark of interest in his eyes rather than scorn.

Sherlock clears his throat before deciding to elaborate, looking at a point just over John’s shoulder rather than his face. “When the police are out of their depth, they come to me for help. You’ve seen me deduce people. I apply the same principles to a crime scene. If you observe everything and don’t allow pre-formed ideas to color the evidence, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

Sherlock stops talking and continues to avoid John’s gaze, aware that John must think he’s even weirder than before.

“Wow,” John says. Sherlock’s eyes fly back to John’s face. He looks amazed. Not as though he doesn’t believe Sherlock but as though he’s impressed. His eyes are wide, crinkling at the corners with his bright smile.

“Will you tell me about a case?” John asks.

Sherlock blinks at him for a moment in surprise, not having expected John to be this interested in him.

“Of - of course,” Sherlock says, cheeks coloring under John’s gaze.

This time it’s Molly who interrupts them. She walks into the room a few minutes later and smiles at them as they jolt apart in surprise at her sudden entrance. Sherlock had been describing his most recent case to John who was listening with rapt attention, interrupting with brief exclamations of praise here and there as Sherlock described his deductions. Sherlock only realizes that their shoulders had been pressed together when a rush of cold air hits him as John moves away.

He watches Molly and John chat as John makes his way over to his seat, definitely not looking at how John’s jeans pull over his arse. Sherlock doesn’t bother to register any of the words they’re saying as he watches John begin to put his instrument together, and he is absolutely not staring at the way John’s tongue curls over his reed as he slides it into his mouth. He catalogues John’s laughter in response to something Molly has said, and he watches John move the reed to the corner of his mouth before lisping a response to Molly past it. Sherlock’s hit by a sudden wave of adoration for this perfect being, looking away for a moment as John starts giggling again. He sneaks glances at him as more people trickle in until he accidentally catches John’s eye and John winks at him, at which point Sherlock diverts his gaze to his violin as he pulls it out of its case, blushing faintly as he hears John’s responding chuckle across the room.


	4. Staff Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the second time in as many weeks, John is shocked at seeing Sherlock sitting in the practice room.

Unfortunately, the next time John gets to practice early is a week later. They kept having to schedule rugby practice ending a scant few minutes before music practice began and with a huge biochemistry test coming up he hadn’t had much time after practice either. John’s fairly certain he did well on the exam this morning, but he’s resentful of not having gotten to see much of Sherlock. As it is, he’s not much earlier than he normally is, but he’s a few minutes ahead of when everyone else gets to the music room. The week before, after the practice when Sherlock had told him about being a consulting detective, John had slightly awkwardly asked for Sherlock’s phone number. He needed, well, wanted, a way to continue to talk to the violinist during the weekend so he wouldn’t be pining after him the entire time. After looking at John for a second, Sherlock had written it down for John, a slight smile playing over his features. They had been texting all week, staying up late into the night to talk about their lives and Sherlock’s cases and John’s rugby and everything they could think of, but John misses getting to see Sherlock in person. They’ve continued smiling at each other over their music stands, but John misses seeing Sherlock’s eyes light up as he talks about something. Imagining his posh baritone and how he gestures when describing experiments isn’t quite the same thing.

John turns the corner to the hallway that their rehearsal space is in. He strains his ears but he doesn’t hear any violin. Damn. He wonders if Sherlock misses him as much as he misses Sherlock. Probably not. After all, Sherlock’s way out of John's league and they haven’t known each other for very long. But, maybe he’ll hang around after practice ends and see if Sherlock wants to go to get coffee again. Possibly as a date. Is it too soon to ask that? The more pertinent question might be whether or not John has the courage to do that. It’s hard to get a read on how Sherlock feels about him, even though he knows him so much better than he did a week ago.

He enters the room and for the second time in as many weeks is shocked at seeing Sherlock sitting there, working on his music. This time he’s not playing anything though. Instead, he has three stands clustered around him and is using them as desks, with pages of staff paper scattered over them. He’s scribbling on one page with a pencil, a second forgotten pencil tucked behind his right ear as he works. His brow is furrowed in concentration and his tongue is held absent-mindedly between his teeth as he carefully writes more notes on the page.

“What are you doing?” John asks, moving from his spot in the doorway.

Sherlock jumps, upsetting the page he was working on, and John smirks at the startled violinist who had been so caught up in his own head he hadn't heard John come in.

“I’m-” Sherlock clears his throat, his voice slightly rusty with disuse, “I’m transcribing what you heard me play last week onto paper.” 

“I hadn’t realized you had finished it, I can’t wait to hear it again,” John responds as he sets his things down and carefully sits next to Sherlock, trying not to disrupt any more of the papers.

“Well it’s - it’s not quite finished. But I need to be able to see it on paper so I can fix the last few things and I needed more space in my head to work on the second movement.”

“Wow. You’re incredible, you know that? Do you have a name for it yet?” Sherlock doesn't answer right away, but he looks flustered as he mumbles a name towards his stand. “What?”

“I said that I named it after a person,” Sherlock says, not meeting John’s eye.

"Oh," John answers, not sure what to do with the information. "Do I know them? Or is it that composer you were talking abou- "

"I named it after you. You inspired it, so it seemed fitting," Sherlock mumbles, muscles tensing as he continues to stare at a fixed spot on his current page.

John’s breath hitches in his throat. What? Sherlock had written that - that beautiful piece - because of him?

“Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to reciprocate my feelings. I barely know you and you're far above me in the social hierarchy and you were very kind to be friendly towards me last week, so don’t think I’m expecting anything but I didn’t want to lie and I thought that maybe if I told y-” 

Sherlock stops his increasingly rapidfire speech when John's palm comes to rest against his cheek, slowly turning Sherlock back to face him. He meets John’s eye in total surprise, his body rigid with tension but relaxing as he scans John’s face.

John slowly moves his face closer to Sherlock’s, keeping his expression soft and open. He watches the confusion in Sherlock’s eyes dissipate into realization right before he ever-so-gently brushes his lips against Sherlock’s before starting to pull away. 

He stays a few centimeters away from his face, waiting as he watches the Sherlock’s brain come back on before the violinist follows John and insistently pushes his lips against John’s.

John makes an unconscious noise of surprise in the back of his throat, not expecting Sherlock to be so enthusiastic but thrilled that he’s reciprocating. The noise is repeated when Sherlock’s tongue swipes across John’s mouth and John parts his lips in surprise before Sherlock’s tongue delves into his mouth. John chuckles when he realizes he can practically feel Sherlock’s brain cataloguing his mouth, giving Sherlock a moment or two to do so before giving back as good as he gets. His left hand is still on Sherlock’s cheek, his right in Sherlock’s hair while Sherlock has one hand on the edge chair between John’s legs to support himself and the other fisted in John’s jumper in a death grip as though he’s scared that John will try to pull away. John smiles into their kiss and leans towards Sherlock a little more, deepening the kiss and laughing quietly when he hears Sherlock whine slightly into John’s mouth.

They break apart when they hear voices making their way down the hall a few minutes later. John grins at Sherlock’s flushed cheeks and darkened eyes and he starts to giggle, slightly overwhelmed with the happiness in his chest. Sherlock joins in, and they sit there for a moment together before John stands up.

“Can I see you again after practice?” John asks, brushing his thumb over Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock enthusiastically nods yes, his slightly crooked grin stretching wider over his features as John backs away to his seat across the room. A moment later, Irene, Molly, and Greg enter the room chatting together.

After practice, Sherlock will take John to Angelo’s. They’ll talk over all manner of things: music, their courses, deductions of other customers, the last rugby game. They will talk until their candle’s burning down and the night outside has grown dark. John’s knee will be pleasantly pressed against Sherlock’s, fingers intertwined while they linger over their shared dessert. They’ll only leave when they realize that they’re the last customers there and although Angelo would let Sherlock stay as long as he would like, they can’t stay forever, and John will walk Sherlock back to his flat. John will leave Sherlock with a slow kiss that tastes faintly of tiramisu and the promise of another date tomorrow, and he will walk away with a head full of passionate aquamarine eyes in candlelight. But, for now, they grin at each other over their music stands and think of all the things to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I had a lot of fun writing this short series, and I hope you all enjoyed it! <3


End file.
